Ballots and Blood (36 page)

MARVIN MYERS HELD COURT IN a private dining room at Tosca Ristorante, the power lunch spot for the K Street crowd in downtown DC, joined by Jillian Ann Singer and Ed Dowdy. Given the speculation rocketing around town about Dowdy shopping the client list, it was a dangerous time to be seen in public. Taking extra precautions, they arrived separately before the lunch crowd. Singer hid her face behind a scarf and large designer sunglasses.

“So tell me, Ms. Singer, have you been interviewed by the FBI?” asked Myers as he took a bite of mushroom risotto. “If you don't want to answer, I understand.”

“I don't mind,” said Singer. “They interviewed me the day after they found Perry Miller's body.” Myers noticed the puffiness of Singer's skin. Black roots were visible beneath a mountain of bleached blond hair. A life spent in illicit pleasure had taken its toll, but underneath, like the bright colors in a master's painting obscured by years of smoke and dirt, she still possessed a smoldering beauty.

“That happened before I was representing Jillian,” said Dowdy in self-congratulation, his face glistening with summer sweat. “They're getting nothing from her now, I assure you.”

“What did they want to know?” asked Myers.

“Mostly about Amber and Senator Miller,” said Singer. “They also wanted to know about any Muslim clients.”

Myers perked up. “So they suspected a terrorist connection from the beginning?”

“That was my impression,” she replied. “They also asked if I knew who Miller was.”

“And did you?”

“Oh, sure. We all did.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Nothing surprises me, Mr. Myers,” said Singer. She took a sip from her vodka martini. “When you've been in my business as long as I have, you're not surprised by people's secrets.” She shook her head. “You wouldn't believe some of the things I've seen.”

“It's what keeps me in business,” said Myers drolly.

Singer smiled knowingly. “Anyway, the FBI didn't ask about other clients beyond the Muslims or Arabs. At least not at first. Only about whether Miller had a regular time for his appointment and if someone might have been able to observe him coming and going . . . that kind of thing.”

“They were trying to figure out how Hassan Qatani tracked him,” observed Myers.

“I believe so, yes.”

Myers looked at Dowdy. “When did you realize the FBI was zeroing in on Jillian?”

“When I got a call from Patrick Mahoney,” said Dowdy. “He wanted to ask Jillian a lot of questions. He said they would agree none of what she said could be used against her if they chose to prosecute her down the road. It's called, ‘queen for a day.'”

Myers nodded. “A common prosecution strategy when lacking leads.”

“Yes, but we declined,” said Dowdy. “That's when they started to turn the screws.”

“And that's why you've decided to release the client list,” said Myers.

“It's the only leverage I have,” said Singer. “It's hard because I've always protected my clients. But the feds destroyed my business. They've ruined my life.” Her eyes welled with tears.

“I know it's tough,” said Myers, reaching out to touch her arm, awkwardly trying to comfort her.

“I'm sorry,” said Singer. She dabbed her eyes with her napkin. “Now my mascara is going to smear.”

Dowdy jumped in. “Marvin, I know you don't normally compensate sources. But I have to secure Jillian Ann's future. She may not be able to work for some time.”

“I can't pay Jillian,” said Myers. “But there's more than one way to skin this cat. With the right literary agent, you could get a book contract in the mid-to-upper six figures.” He dropped his chin. “That is assuming you're willing to tell everything. And I mean
everything
.”

“I am,” said Singer, her voice brittle and defiant. “I've got nothing left to lose. I did nothing wrong, and they still took everything from me.”

Dowdy pulled a note card from his pocket and wrote something on it. When he was done, he slid it across the table to Myers. “Here's a little down payment,” he said. “Off the record.”

Myers picked up the note card and put on his reading glasses. The card had two names on it. One was Rick Roberts, a high-ranking Democrat in the House. The other was Mike Fannin, Republican U.S. senator from Arizona. Myers felt his heart rate quicken. He tried to keep his cool.

“That's just the appetizer,” said Dowdy. “The main course is
mind-blowing.
There's one name on the list that will blow sky high. I'm talking Nagasaki.” He made a low, muffled noise and raised his hands from the table, simulating a mushroom cloud.

“It's in your interest for me to be the one to break this story,” said Myers smoothly. “You don't want the tabloids getting it. It'll be like Gennifer Flowers—cash for trash. There's no future for Jillian Ann in that scenario besides a Vegas lounge act.”

“We know that,” said Dowdy. “If you can help her get a book deal or a magazine deal, the list is yours. But there are other sharks circling. They're hungry . . . and they're waving a lot of cash under our noses.”

“Understood,” said Myers. “I'll get back to you this afternoon.” His mind raced. He didn't like dealing with a sleaze like Dowdy, but he couldn't let the client list slip away. He still had the mojo, of that he was certain. Now was the time to show the bloggers and the pseudo-news Web sites who was boss.

HOURS AFTER EU HEADS OF state passed the most crippling sanctions ever slapped on Iran after two days of nonstop lobbying and cajoling by Long, Jay was awakened by a sharp knock on his door at the U.S. embassy, where the American delegation was staying. He stumbled across the floor wearing a T-shirt and his underwear, cracking the door slightly.

“What is it?” he asked groggily.

“Mr. Noble. I need you to get dressed and packed. We're leaving,” said the dark-suited Secret Service agent.

“What? Now . . . in the middle of the night? Why?”

“The president and the delegation are in extreme danger. There's been an assassination attempt on Brodi. We believe the president may be a target as well.”

Jay let out an expletive. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, sir. There are also reports the French foreign minister has been assassinated. Two members of our delegation are missing.”

“Who's missing?” asked Jay, now fully awake, adrenalin hitting his bloodstream.

“One of Truman Greenglass's deputies and Victor Levell,” he said. Levell was assistant secretary of state for Middle Eastern affairs. “Get packed and put your bags outside the door. We leave in ten minutes.”

The door closed. Jay felt his adrenal glands open. The clock on his bed stand read 4:35 a.m. He had only left Gabriella an hour earlier. He put on a shirt and suit, fumbling with the buttons with shaking hands. He threw his clothes in his suitcase, not even bothering to fold them, and placed it out in the hallway. He tried to call Gabriella on her cell phone but it went straight to voice mail. Thinking she might still be at the Hassler, he dialed the operator and asked for her room. She answered on the second ring.

“Hello?” she asked, half asleep.

“Gabby, it's Jay. There's been an attempt on Brodi's life and two members of our delegation missing. The Secret Service is ordering us to leave tonight.”

“Mama mia!” exclaimed Gabriella. “Are you okay? Are you sure you're safe?”

“Yes, I'm inside the embassy compound,” replied Jay. “We're covered up with security. But I didn't want you to wake up in the morning and hear the reports and be worried.”

“Thanks, baby. Be safe. Call me when you land in the States. I'll come see you soon.”

“I can't wait,” said Jay. “I had a great time.”

“Me, too, sugar.”

Jay hung up and stepped out into the hallway, where pandemonium unfolded. Helmeted military police in Kevlar vests jogged up and down, semiautomatic rifles drawn, barrels in the air. Air Force stewards grabbed luggage from staff, some of whom were half-naked or still wearing their pajamas. As Jay stood there unsure of what to do next, he saw Truman Greenglass walking past, panic-stricken.

“Truman!” shouted Jay. “What's going on?”

“They tried to kill Brodi,” said Greenglass, his eyes like saucers. “Pingeon is dead. Levell and Daniels are missing.” Pingeon was the French foreign minister, Norm Daniels was Greenglass's deputy for the Middle East.

“Who's behind it?” asked Jay.

“It's Zafarshan, which means the Iranians,” said Greenglass. He leaned into Jay. “Levell was running all the covert aid to the Green Movement. This is payback.” With that he scurried down the hall. As he rounded the corner, he shouted, “Get downstairs or you'll be left!”

Jay felt a shudder go through him. He could not believe Zafarshan was brazen enough to murder U.S. officials on foreign soil. Then again, he had already assassinated a U.S. vice president and engineered the murder of Perry Miller. Just then Jay felt someone grab his arm. He turned to find a Secret Service agent in a dark suit, his gun drawn, leading him to an elevator.

“Mr. Noble, come with me.”

They stepped onto the elevator, already jammed with staff, Secret Service, embassy employees, and soldiers. As the elevator descended, its passengers were eerily silent. When the doors opened, they stepped into the parking garage, filled with flying bodies, moving vehicles, and total chaos. As Jay headed for one of the staff vans, he caught sight of the president stepping into the armored presidential limousine, surrounded by gun-toting Secret Service and military police.
What a surreal scene,
thought Jay.

30

T
he presidential motorcade traveled to the airport at speeds approaching ninety miles an hour. Rome resembled a city under siege. Police set up roadblocks at every exit and major intersection in the city, flashing blue lights piercing the darkness. No one could enter major highways from either direction. The route from the city center to the airport was lined with police water cannons, tanks, armored personnel carriers, and soldiers. U.S. AWACS surveillance aircraft and NATO F-18 fighter jets flew overhead, ready to fire at anything suspicious. Police choppers flew overhead, their searchlights scanning buildings and side streets.

Air Force One took off with its lights darkened to make it more difficult for a terrorist to launch a shoulder-fired missile at its fuselage. For Long and the White House staff, it was eerie departing Italy under the cloak of darkness. Whether declared or not, the U.S. was at war with both Iran and Rassem el Zafarshan, and it wasn't entirely clear who was winning.

When Americans awoke the next morning, they did so to blaring headlines and melodramatic morning news shows reporting the shocking news: terrorists blew up a car bomb outside the French embassy, killing the foreign minister, one member of his security detail, and two civilian embassy employees. A second bomb intended for Lorenzo Brodi failed to detonate, at which point a terrorist tried to run a police barricade wearing an explosive vest and was killed in a hail of bullets.

Had Long been a target? No one knew. A top secret Special Threat Task Force was created after the murder of Perry Miller, housed at the Justice Department, staffed with FBI and Secret Service agents as well as CIA and counterintelligence operatives from the Pentagon. They tracked intel, assessed threats, and evaluated assassination plots, particularly from terrorist sources. Miller's murder ratcheted up the number of government officials with Secret Service protection to more than fifty. The task force assessed the European Union conference as a major security threat for the president, but the Secret Service was so focused on protecting the president it was blindsided by the assassination and kidnapping of lower-level officials.

On Air Force One, Long convened a meeting of his national security team. The atmosphere was tense, the scene bizarre. Vice President Whitehead, Charlie Hector, William Jacobs from CIA, and the secretary of defense joined via video conference from the Situation Room in the White House. Everyone was jumpy.

“Can we lay this at Zafarshan's feet?” asked Long. “If we have proof, we can take retaliatory action.” He wore gray slacks and a blue Air Force One jacket with a presidential seal. He was tired but calm, fully in control.

“Yes, but against whom?” asked the secretary of defense. “Iran or Zafarshan?”

“Both,” replied Long, not missing a beat. “But it depends on the evidence. We need the FBI and the CIA to get us a readout on who's behind it.”

“Mr. President, Norm and Vic Levell were the ones keeping the spigots open for both materiel and financial support to the Green Movement,” said Greenglass, his eyes narrowing. “The Iranians knew. They were targeted.”

“They're hitting us back for what we're doing inside Iran,” said Jacobs.

“Related to the nuclear program, you mean?” asked Long. “Like the assassination of the engineer in Damascus.”

“Yes, and much more,” said Jacobs, his face visible in a grainy color mage on a big-screen TV in the plane's conference room. “The elimination of human assets within the nuclear program has taken a toll. Some of Salami's top advisors have been taken down. Plus general unrest within the country.”

“I get Brodi, but why the French?” asked Long.

“They've been partners on a lot of the black ops,” said Jacobs. “They're very good at that sort of thing.”

“Well, that explains it,” said Long.

“Mr. President, you'll need to make a statement when you land,” said Charlie Hector over the videoconference.

“Should I do it at Andrews or wait until I land on the South Lawn?”

“Andrews,” replied Hector. “I don't like the idea of you leaving Air Force One and getting in Marine One without saying anything.”